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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24317008">Choose</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/static_abyss/pseuds/static_abyss'>static_abyss</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, F/F, Families of Choice, Magical Realism, Minor Enjolras/Grantaire, Soulmates</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 04:22:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,805</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24317008</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/static_abyss/pseuds/static_abyss</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Éponine is going on a blind date because Grantaire insists that she should. It's her birthday, Grantaire's met this beautiful girl who would be perfect for Éponine, and the nights drag with the inevitable boredom of Éponine's life. She wants a change even if she doesn't know what kind yet. </p><p> </p><p>For the prompt: <em>They see each other for the first time at midnight, New Year's Eve. As the clock ticks over to a new year, they lock eyes across the room. For the time being, they forget about it, but when they meet on a blind date seven years later, they recognize each other. And time stops. From that moment onward, they are the only moving beings in a completely frozen world.</em></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cosette Fauchelevent/Éponine Thénardier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>things that go bump: a ficathon for every kind of weirdness</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. A Choice Not Given</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">



        <li>In response to a prompt by
            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/sobelow/pseuds/sobelow">sobelow</a>  in the  <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/collections/thingsthatgobump">thingsthatgobump</a>
          collection.
        </li>
    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Éponine Thénardier wakes on Tuesday, the weather outside her room exactly matches her mood. The grey clouds in the distance threaten rain, the kind of heavy droplets that hurt when they first start to fall. The wind's already picking up, shaking the long branches of the oak tree outside her window, its leaves scraping the glass. Across from her apartment complex, the small park with its green fields surrounding its race track lays empty. </p><p>She hasn't seen anyone in it for almost a week now, its metal grate shut since the start of spring. No one's mentioned anything on the news about the closed parks, though Éponine knows the one near Grantaire and Enjolras's place has been closed also. She saw it on her run yesterday before she'd gone to pick up Gavroche from his middle school. The new park near Azelma's high school had just never opened. </p><p>Éponine finds it a little strange, but she has other things on her mind lately. It's her twenty-fifth birthday tomorrow and she promised Grantaire that he could take her out for a drink, maybe a dance. </p><p>"It's your birthday," Grantaire had said.</p><p>"It's a Thursday," had been Éponine's response. </p><p>She has to get Gavroche's lunch ready and make sure that he does his homework. Azelma needs new shoes and Éponine's on a nine to nine tomorrow. She has workers to round up, schedules to approve, friends to avoid. She's exhausted, physically and mentally. She hadn't even realized her birthday was coming. If it hadn't been for Gavroche's overbright eyes and his shit-eating grin that morning, Éponine wouldn't have remembered. </p><p>"Whatchu doin' tomorrow?" he'd asked, his brown hair too long, his shirts too worn. </p><p>His other friends always had clean, pressed shirts that still shone like when they were new. But Gavroche isn't the kind of kid who cares about keeping his clothes clean. He climbs trees, digs up worms, is loud and obnoxious, and generally disliked by the older, richer ladies whose kids Gavroche hangs out with. He's sharp as a whip and intelligent beyond what anyone expects of him. It's why Gavroche had ended up at the private school where Enjolras and Grantaire taught instead of at the public school with Azelma. </p><p>He's the pride and joy of their family and an absolute headache. But he's smarter than anyone gives him credit for. Gavroche understands intuitively that one day soon, he'll be tall enough and loud enough that he'll scare the rich ladies who pick up their kids from school in their shining Mercedes. Éponine worries about Gavroche, about Azelma going away for college, too far for Éponine to get to her if something happens. </p><p>"There's no time for birthdays," Éponine had told Gavroche that morning. </p><p>He'd winked at her as he'd tucked his lunch into his backpack, careless of where it landed among his things. "Always time for a good time," he'd said.</p><p>"Not for you, there isn't," Éponine had said, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. </p><p>Gavroche never actively causes trouble since the hospital had called the social worker on them a few years ago. Gavroche had been eight, smaller than the other boys his age. He'd gotten into an argument with some kids at the playground. Éponine had just come from a double shift and she'd been half-asleep as she'd sat on the bench with Azelma. Éponine hadn't meant to fall asleep and Azelma had only wanted to let Éponine rest. It hadn't been more than ten minutes when Éponine had woken to the sound of Gavroche's pained screams. He'd climbed up over the top of the monkey bars and had fallen off, cutting himself on the rusted playground gate. He'd needed sixteen stitches on his arm and Éponine had needed a drink. But she'd tossed her fake ID back when Gavroche had picked-pocketed it and had tried to convince Azelma to buy him a beer.  </p><p>Gavroche is a menace but he'd been scared when the social worker had come calling. The lady had been kind, but Éponine hadn't been able to sleep well for weeks afterward. She'd lie awake thinking of their one-bedroom apartment and their bunk beds, how Gravroche had still slept with Éponine, and how the social worker might've read that as codependence. How Éponine had barely scraped by enough to keep the roof over their heads and food on their table. How when things got bad at work, they'd head down to the Food Stamp office and apply. How if she'd made too much that month and they were over by a dollar, they'd be denied, as though Éponine was meant to feed a family with an extra dollar. </p><p>She shakes herself now as she walks past the manicured lawns on her way to Gavroche. It doesn't help to dwell on the past. They're better off now. Éponine had worked her way up at the art store, from cashier to manager of three sites. She'd pushed herself and had put in the work, and now she can pay for their apartment and the food. Now she can buy Azelma the new shoes she needs and get Gavroche the new PS4 game. </p><p>They have a PS4. </p><p>She takes a deep breath, the silence of the street odd for the hour. The streets should be full of cars honking their horns and white women blaring rap from their car radios. Instead, Éponine makes it to Gavroche's school and the yard is empty. She looks at her phone and sees that it says 3:30 p.m. </p><p>It had said 3:30 p.m. when she'd left the apartment.   </p><p>A sudden sense of unease goes through Éponine as she looks at the empty schoolyard. She turns on the spot, but the eerie silence remains the same. She's alone, and it's as though everything else has stopped existing. </p><p>The ringing of the bell startles her, its loud, piercing cry making Éponine jump. She feels her phone slip from her fingers as though in slow motion, the first slide, the jerk of her arm in an attempt to stop its fall. The back of her hand hits the side of her phone and as Éponine's phone flies through the air, the kids start their mad dash out the front door.  </p><p>"Fuck," she says with feeling. </p><p>Her phone's screen is cracked, the bottom half covered in the black liquid from her phone's battery. At the top she can make out the time, the numbers 3:45 p.m. flashing at her from the distorted screen images. She turns back to the front of the school in time to see Gavroche saluting his friends as he heads towards Éponine.</p><p>"S'up," he says coming to a stop in front of her. "How come you're so early?"</p><p>"I'm not," Éponine says. "It's a quarter to four."</p><p>Gavroche frowns at her and turns back towards the front of the school where his friends are. The four boys are looking out into the empty parking lot, the absence of cars hitting Éponine again full force. The place is usually crawling with parents at his hour. Their obnoxious habit of yelling across the parking lot to get their kids to come to them has always gotten on Éponine's nerves. It's absence now should have registered sooner. </p><p>She glances at her phone, the numbers now saying 3:47 p.m. She knows she hadn't imagined the 3:30 p.m. only a few moments ago. </p><p>"What happened to your phone?" Gavroche asks.</p><p>"Broke it," Éponine says. "I got tired of having a working phone. Work's driving me nuts. Let them try to get to me now."</p><p>Gavroche laughs, his head going back, his shoulder shaking. Éponine watches him, amused, as he gathers himself and turns once more to wave at the group of boys on the steps. Éponine starts walking without him and when Gavroche catches up to her, he's walking backward.</p><p>"You know," he says," I think Jay likes you."</p><p>Éponine looks around the parking lot as she and Gavroche make their way across to the sidewalk. There are no beeping cars trying to squeeze past each other as children scramble to get away from school as quickly as possible. </p><p>Where are all the parents?</p><p>"Hey, Éponine," Gavroche says again.</p><p>"I'm not going to date your twelve-year-old friend, Gavroche," Éponine says. "I don't care what you'd get out of it."</p><p>"Ew, gross," Gavroche says, making a face. "You're ancient. He just wanted you to wave at him. Said he'd pay for my juice for a week."</p><p>"You don't drink juice," Éponine says. </p><p>Gavroche sighs and turns to face the front again. "I know," he says. "But if Jay's paying, I can afford to drink juice."</p><p>They kept walking, Gavroche detailing the events of his day. He mentions Éponine's birthday twice and Éponine ignores him twice. </p><p>"Grantaire was looking for you," Gavroche says. "I forgot to tell you, but he said he'd call if he didn't catch you after school. I think he's fighting with Mr. Enjolras."</p><p>Éponine stops. "Grantaire's fighting with Enjolras?" she asks. </p><p>Gavroche grins at her. "If you go out with him tomorrow, I promise to tell you everything I know," he says. </p><p>Éponine rolls her eyes and grabs the back of Gavroche's backpack to get him moving again. She makes a mental note to chew out Grantaire for trying to use Gavroche against her. Later. Once they get home and away from the silence of their surroundings. </p><p>They're still within a block of the school, the absence of birds and the crunch of tires on gravel sending a curl of unease up Éponine's spine. She can hear the murmur of confused children back at the school, and in the absence of anything else, their voices carry over in an oppressive wave. It's too quiet. Her normally light steps sound like a blatant beacon announcing where she and Gravoche are. Part of her expects someone to be hiding in the gardens of the houses they pass, an ambush at the end of the block.  And just as another ripple of apprehension starts to crawl up Éponine's shoulders, she notices Mrs. Thompson's black Mercedes turning the corner. Behind her car, there are three more, all parents who are always at the school long before Éponine can get there. </p><p>When Éponine works, she times her lunch so that she can get Gavroche and walk him to the cafe across from her store. He sits there until Azelma gets out of school and goes to get him. On days when Éponine doesn't work, she always leaves her apartment at 3:30 p.m. so that she can avoid Mrs. Thompson and her faux-sympathetic eyes, that soft "tut-tut" that makes Éponine murderous. </p><p>"Hey," Gavroche says now, waiving at the black Mercedes. "Mrs. Thompson, hey. Please tell Jay that it's a no-go on our deal. He'll know what I mean."</p><p>It's as though his voice is the signal the sound has been waiting for. As Mrs. Thompson slows down, her car windows open, her rap music at a reasonable volume, the birds in the trees next to Éponine come to life. Just like that, the volume turns back up, the sounds of the living world permeating the silence, vague forgotten things that are usually background noise. Things like the rustling leaves as the breeze moves through the trees and the far off sounds of honking car horns.</p><p>Éponine takes a step further away from the curb and watches Mrs. Thompson warily. Mrs. Thompson's wearing a form-fitting, white, lace blouse with a high neck. From this distance, Éponine can't see what kind of skirt she's wearing, but Éponine imagines it's black and straight. Mrs. Thompson always wears heels, always curls her long blond hair until it falls in ringlets down her back, even if she's just going to pick up her kid from school. Her bright blue eyes peer at Gavroche over her Ray-Bans. </p><p>"Ah, Éponine," she says and just the sound of her voice is enough to make Éponine's skin crawl. "You've come for Gavroche early. He's not in trouble, I hope."</p><p>Gavroche turns on his most charming smile, all air of innocence and dashing indifference. Besides him, Éponine seethes. </p><p>"Oh, no. Mrs. T," Gavroche says. "It's 3:50 p.m. You're late."</p><p>"That can't be," Mrs. Thompson says, lifting her sunglasses so that she can look at her phone. </p><p>Éponine sees the dawning realization on Mrs. Thompson's face, her perfectly lined lips dropping open in shock. Éponine swallows the urge to throttle Mrs. Thompson when she looks up with her wide doe-eyes. The pity she usually turns on full force in front of Éponine is absent today as she puts her car back into drive.</p><p>"I hope Jay hasn't been waiting long," Éponine says, pleasantly. </p><p>"Bye," Gavroche calls, waiving.</p><p>It's with much better spirits that Éponine heads back home and in the afternoon rush, she forgets about the strange lapse in time.</p><p>*</p><p>Éponine clocks out at 9 p.m., hitting the last of the light switches on her way out. She checks twice to make sure she's locked the door behind her. Outside the street is dark, the streetlights setting off orange halos on the ground. Some of the other stores on the street leave their lights on so Éponine has no trouble making her way down towards the train station. Her initial intention had been to go home after work, but Gavroche had packed her lunch this morning and Azelma had insisted Éponine call Grantaire, and between the two of them, Éponine had had no choice. </p><p>Rarely these days, does she have a choice. </p><p>Now, she tucks her bag close to her body and walks along the cobbled streets, the night breeze ruffling the loose hairs around her face. She's only a few steps from the corner where she's supposed to meet Grantaire when she notices the quiet. It's easier to pick up this time, the night highlighting the unnaturalness of the silence. It's as though someone's turned off a low, soft song that was playing in the background. Something Éponine's only noticing now because she no longer hears it. </p><p>She turns on the spot, but there is no one on the block she's walking on.  Most of the stores lining the avenue have their grates pulled over their front doors, the lights from their windows shinning in a single consistent beam. She can't hear the cars in the distance, though she can smell the waft of cigarette smoke and exhaust fumes. </p><p>Éponine pulls her phone out of her pocket, the screen lighting up on the top half of her phone. Nine o'clock blinks at her, the number unmistakable. She knows what time she clocked out and she knows how long she's been walking. It takes her at least ten minutes to get to the train station from her store. Somehow, with the night, it's easier to believe that something is going on, that perhaps Éponine had not imagined the frozen time yesterday, the obvious silence after she went to pick up Gavroche. </p><p>She shakes herself again and keeps walking, her bag tucked closer to her body. She feels a familiar crawling up her spine, as though someone is watching her, following her. She speeds up, turns a little to the side as if she means to cross the street but there is no one behind her. The street remains empty and as Éponine hurries to the corner to meet Grantaire, she sees it.</p><p>A small black and white Chihuahua with large pointed ears. Around its neck, Éponine can see a studded collar, its little clasp shining under the orange streetlight. The little dog is staring right at her, its ears perked up at attention, its body unmoving. There's no rise and fall as the dog breathes, no low growl as it notices her. It stands there, frozen. And just as Éponine notices the tip of a boot and a single pale hand reaching around the corner, there's the piercing sound of a blaring horn. </p><p>"Fuck," Éponine yells. </p><p>She steps back into the wall of the store behind her and watches in horror as a black SUV turns the corner and heads for the little Chihuahua. Éponine moves forward, knowing that it's too late but wanting to help anyway. She's just resigning herself to what she's about to witness when the person rounding the corner dashes over to the little dog and snatches it out of the way. </p><p>Grantaire stands, pushing his black curls away from his face. He hasn't noticed Éponine as he turns back to someone waiting around the corner of the street. He's saying something, gesturing animatedly with the hand not holding the dog. Éponine can't explain how, but she knows she has to stay on this side of the street. She waits as Grantaire makes small talk, as there's an exchange of numbers, some more gesturing, followed by a delicate laugh.   </p><p>Éponine looks around her, the street behind her suddenly full of people. She sees more people coming out of stores, their hands full of plastic shopping bags and purses. She can see a mother trying to drag her daughter into a Fifth Avenue, even as the little girl screams. There's the low buzzing of the streetlights, the barely-there hum of the storefront signs. She turns just as she hears Grantaire call her name.</p><p>He's crossing the street, a grin plastered on his face, always friendly, always wanting to be where the noise is. He's different now, despite being the same as she's always known him, as though there's an underlying confidence in his demeanor. She knows it comes from the certainty of having friends who love him, of having people in his life he can trust, of having Enjolras. </p><p>Éponine can't begrudge him that, would never dream of it. He's freer now, despite the sheer exhaustion of living that sometimes overcomes him.   </p><p>"Éponine," he says now, throwing his arms wide as he looks at her. "Happy birthday, do you trust me?"</p><p>Éponine thinks of Gavroche in his too-small pajamas, of how he'd crawled into Grantaire's lap the first time Éponine had let Grantaire into their home. She remembers how Gavroche had pulled open Grantaire's sketchbook and had said, "these are good. You should be an artist." </p><p>She thinks of Azelma, thirteen, a small little thing, handing Grantaire a Valentine's Day card. She thinks of herself at twenty-one yelling as Grantaire had received his diploma, of how her heart had broken a little that day. Of how she had done it again when he was twenty-three and had received his Master's in Education, how she'd wanted so much to be able to stand on that stage with him. Of how she'd done her best to keep it quiet, how Grantaire had noticed, how he'd told her without saying a word that he understood her.</p><p>She still has the drawing he'd given her the day after his graduation, the black and white sketch of Azelma, Gavroche, and Éponine sitting on their old couch, the flowing script at the bottom saying, "I couldn't have done it without you."</p><p>She looks at Grantaire now, his bright smile, and rolls her eyes. "Okay," she says. "I trust you."</p><p>*</p><p>Éponine is going on a blind date because Grantaire insists that she should. It's her birthday and Grantaire's met this beautiful girl with a Chihuahua, who would be perfect for Éponine. </p><p>"Trust me," he'd said.</p><p>Éponine had glared at him under the streetlights. "I don't trust people," she'd said.</p><p>Grantaire had put a hand on his chest, all air of betrayal. Éponine had stared at him blankly as a lady in red had passed them, stopping to look into the closed General Store beside Éponine and Grantaire. Éponine had glanced at her phone, the blinking 9:33 p.m. that she knew couldn't be right. Grantaire had been patient, had pressed just the right amount, and Éponine could feel the inevitable press of boredom as she thought of going home. </p><p>She looks down at the address scribbled on the back of the card Grantiare handed her and thinks of going to the bar, of the loud music, and the heat from the bodies around her. She can imagine the night, how she can try to be charming, how she can maybe find herself in someone's bed tonight. Anything to cover up the pain in the center of her chest every time she lets herself think of the future. </p><p>She doesn't regret where she is in her life at the moment. She isn't sorry that she no longer has to sit through the midday rush at the art store or the after school rush, but she can't quite bring herself to be excited about the potential of working at the store forever. She knows she can leave, knows that there are other jobs out there. But she also knows that she has medical and dental, that she can buy Azelma her glasses through her work insurance, that Gavroche's braces aren't going to be cheap when he eventually needs them. </p><p>She turns the little white card over to the front where Grantaire's name sits above <em>North Rockland Middle School</em>, "Art Teacher" in long slopping lines underneath that. She knows Grantaire, had known his type the minute he'd walked through the glass doors of the art store, his eyes downcast even as he'd moved from aisle to aisle. He'd come alive in the rows of paints, the colors, the canvas. She'd been nineteen and working overtime then to get Gavroche his new uniform and pay for the extra dancing lessons Azelma had wanted. Hiding in her corner of the store, restocking the shelves, she'd been able to watch Grantaire, the way he shut down when a group of lively students had walked through the doors.</p><p>Éponine had known in the depths of her soul the hunger in Grantaire's eyes as he'd looked at the blond guy, long-limbed and beautiful. Éponine hadn't trusted the blond man almost immediately. Something about his cared-for mannerism and his arrogance had grated on her nerves. She'd liked him even less when Grantaire had lost all his air of contentment. </p><p>She still remembers the way Grantaire's entire body had deflated, how he'd seemed to shrink in on himself until he'd been easy to overlook. But Éponine had been used to finding things others couldn't, and back then, she'd been looking for something too. So she'd seen the way Grantaire had slipped into the shadows despite the wide-open spaces of the store, how the beautiful blond and his friends had laughed and ignored him as they'd walked by his aisle.</p><p>Grantaire had seemed so lost, crestfallen over what Éponine had thought hadn't been worth it. She'd waited until her boss at the time had gone on her break and then she'd walked over to Grantaire.</p><p>"If you're looking for the good, cheap stuff, it's in the back," Éponine had said. </p><p>Grantaire had looked at her and she'd known then that there was no way she was going to let him leave alone. </p><p>"If you want, I can show you," she'd said.</p><p>"Uh," Grantaire had said, looking as though he'd rather be anywhere else. "I don't...that's...I'm gay?"</p><p>Éponine still tells the story to this day whenever the mood is right and whenever it will most rankle Enjolras. It's not that Éponine hates Enjolras, but she's not ready to let him forget that he lucked out by getting together with Grantaire. And despite what Grantaire may tell her, Éponine knows that Grantaire, more than Enjolras, needs someone on his side. Unconditionally. </p><p>If Enjolras and Grantaire ever break up, Éponine will be leaving with Grantaire and she does her best to ensure that every one of their friends knows it. </p><p>It's as simple as that she trusts Grantaire and Éponine never imagined that she'd ever have that again. So she rereads the address on the little white card, pulls her bag closer, and heads for the bar. </p><p> </p><p>In her pocket, Éponine's phone lights up, marking eleven o'clock.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A Moment Remembered</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"We're soul mates," Cosette says. "Time stopped when we met."</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Standing Clock turns out to be a bar tucked in between a candy shop at the corner of the street and the end of an upscale apartment complex. The name of the bar hangs above a heavy glass door, the neat block letters merging into the corners of the building. The silver doorknobs gleam in the low light from the overhead bulb, an orange glow that highlights the distant radiance indoors. </p>
<p>Éponine hesitates, looking down at her white button down and her black trousers. Everything she owns fits just a little loose around the waist, the sleeves a little too long. Her hair is tied back into a ponytail and her makeup is simple. She doesn't feel like the kind of person who walks into bars with antechambers and glass doors. </p>
<p>She sticks her hand in the pocket of her work trousers and toys with the corners of the card Grantaire had given her. She knows what Grantaire will say tomorrow when Éponine tells him that she couldn't do it. </p>
<p>"Ah, well, maybe next time," he'll say and Éponine will know she's disappointed him. </p>
<p>She doesn't do blind dates, especially ones that involve fancy bars. There's no hiding in the shadows at The Standing Clock. Éponine can see right into the large room. The golden light from the crystal chandeliers lights up the shining wood of the bar, the black stools reflecting the brightness of the room. The part of the room she can't see hides behind an ornate, black pillar past the antechamber, a mesmerizing flow of blue and white lights making it seem as though water flows down and onto the floor. </p>
<p>There's so much light, so much open space, so many opportunities for someone to see Éponine, to know her. </p>
<p>She doesn't do dates with the people who come to The Standing Clock. She prefers the quick, uncomplicated things that happen in her old haunts, the stolen kisses in dark bar bathrooms. Or on the rare occasion that she can squeeze something in, hard, fast fucks that leave her out of breath, one and done in a place that isn't hers. Somewhere she can escape so that it never gets too complicated. Nothing to distract her from the things she has to do. </p>
<p>She's never needed anyone outside of Azlema and Gavroche and Grantaire. She doesn't need someone who Grantaire thinks Éponine will love, because Éponine's not here for love.</p>
<p>She sighs, resigning herself to an early night, when she sees the woman Grantaire must have meant. The woman steps out from behind the black pillar so Éponine can only see her profile. She's tall with long reddish-brown hair that hangs down her back in waves. She's wearing a black pencil skirt and a white lace blouse that goes up to her neck, the sleeves just past her shoulders. Her shoes are beautiful black pumps and the jewelry that hands from her arms and neck is simple and tasteful. </p>
<p>Éponine stares at her and feels the familiar hunger stirring low in her stomach. She drinks her fill of the woman's endless legs, the curve of her waist, and the long loose hair. Éponine exhales shakily, angry at herself for how predictable she is if Grantaire can read her so easily. </p>
<p>She tells herself that she trusts Grantaire, that the discomfort she feels at being known, is her problem, not his. That just because she thought she hid her one-night stands well doesn't mean that she actually did. Grantaire is observant. It doesn't mean anyone else has noticed.  </p>
<p>Éponine digs her thumb against the edge of Grantaire's card in her pocket. She lets the pressure ground her, allows herself to imagine how she'd approach the woman inside, whether it'd take more or less talking than usual. Whether the upper class responds to cockiness, to Éponine's particular brand of toughness. She imagines sitting at one of the stools, whiskey in one hand, and the woman's knee underneath her other one. How Éponine would lean forward until there was no escaping their proximity, until she had the other woman's undivided attention.</p>
<p>Éponine has always liked that best, when the women she's with look at her, when she can tell that all of their attention is on her. When nothing else matters to them but Éponine's hands, her mouth. Until she's the one in control and nothing can go wrong. </p>
<p>She breathes, lets her eyes drink their fill of the bar, the lights, the woman at the bar who is exactly Éponine's type. She sighs, resigned to the inevitability of her future. She takes a step back and just as she's ready to go, the woman at the bar turns, and their eyes meet.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Éponine's parents left on a sunny summer day, when the clouds drifted in lazy waves across the bright blue sky. They'd lived across a park back then too, a large metal playground that gave way to an expanse of grass and trees. Éponine had been able to see the park from her window and since it had been summer and the day had been beautiful, she'd thought she'd take Gavroche and Azelma outdoors.</p>
<p>She'd been wearing a yellow summer dress that complemented her brown skin, a present from her mother. Azelma's dress had been a deep blue and Gavroche's sneakers had been green and white. Her parents, for all their faults, had loved them once. They'd always had something to eat though the quality and quantity had changed as Éponine had grown. Bad investments and unscrupulous spending had whittled down whatever fortune her mother had brought with her when she'd married Éponine's father. </p>
<p>Still, Éponine had known that she was going to college. The new dress, the acceptance letter on the desk in her bedroom, the pride on her parents' faces when she'd told them. There had been no signs that things had been about to change. Even the weather that day had betrayed her in its beauty.</p>
<p>As she and the woman inside of The Standing Clock look at one another, the memories of that day come back to Éponine half-formed, black edges filling in where Éponine's brain can't. She remembers a day in the summer her mother left, when the sun had been shining and the heat had made Éponine wish she'd stayed inside. Azelma had been watching Gavroche, both quiet and dejected when they were usually wild and loud and alive. Éponine hadn't told them what their mother had said before she'd gone, hadn't mentioned the rich husband or how their father was going to meet her mother there, how a smart investment could only lead to great reward. </p>
<p>Éponine hadn't wanted them to know the truth about their parents, that the love they'd had for their children had come at a cost, that their love had conditions and clauses, fine print that Éponine had never imagined she'd need to learn to read. She hadn't wanted Azelma or Gavroche to know that their parents would rather make themselves comfortable and rich than stay with their family. That they'd waited only long enough for Éponine to be able to take care of a twelve-year-old girl who didn't eat enough, and a six-year-old boy who'd called Éponine "mama" long before he'd ever known who the woman that had slept in their home was. </p>
<p>That day, Éponine had gone outside because she'd seen the college acceptance letter on her desk, had seen the packed suitcases. Her hope had been obvious in the organized chaos of her room, and the knowledge of the life she'd planned for herself had been too much. She'd wanted to study music in college, to start a band and meet a girl on tour who'd be there when Éponine was done basking in the roar of a crowd who'd love her. She'd pictured freedom and late nights on buses, a group of people who would want the same things as her, who would change with her and grow with her, who would depend on her to keep their band going. </p>
<p>She had not dreamed that she would be eighteen, alone, watching the leaves sway in the summer sun. That it'd been summer had made it worse because summers had been for parks, for laughing as Gavroche ran under the sprinklers. Summer had been when they'd been allowed to walk to the beach and bask in the sun. </p>
<p>But that summer, Éponine had sat outside their apartment, knowing that Azelma would never be able to take care of Gavroche, that Éponine had to be the one to do it. That she had to take care of Azelma also, that there would be doctors' appointments in the future, that Éponine would have to learn a cleaner signature for all the upcoming forms. That to do all of that, Éponine would have to throw away the acceptance letter and unpack her suitcases.</p>
<p>It hadn't been fair, and as she'd sat in the summer sun, the breeze humid and hot, she'd allowed herself just a single moment to really feel, deep in her bones, the agony of her situation. That moment alone had almost ruined her. She'd wanted to run, to get as far away as she could from the responsibilities that had been laid at her feet. She'd felt like a child. She'd been a child, and that she'd been expected to care for two other children had been laughable, had been cruel, had been the most selfish thing that her parents could have ever done.   </p>
<p>So she'd allowed herself her moment and then, had taken everything she'd been feeling, had condensed it into a tiny ball, and had pushed it back into the place where everything else has always gone since then. In the deepest parts of herself, a black room that she never goes back to. Then, she'd wiped the tears from her eyes and as she'd started to go back inside, she had run into another girl. </p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Éponine's phone rings in her pocket, snapping her out of her thoughts. She reaches into her bag and sees that it's her alarm, signalling half-past eleven. The sound of her phone's jingle is oddly loud, and it takes Éponine a moment to notice that the sweeping sense of unease that washes over her is because the night is too quiet. She turns to the street and at first, she assumes the cars in front of her are waiting for the light to change. But as she pays closer attention, she notices the eerie stillness of the drivers, the way their eyes seem to gaze into the distance, unseeing. </p>
<p>"What the fuck," she whispers, the sound getting lost in the ringing of her phone.</p>
<p>Éponine glances down at the time, the 11:30 p.m. flashing at her from the top of her phone screen. She tries to swipe right on the bottom of the screen to get the alarm to stop, but it keeps going. She'll wait it out, she thinks. Her phone is set to ring for only a minute. At 11:31 p.m. the phone will stop. Right now, Éponine has other things to worry about.</p>
<p>She looks down the street  to the crowd of people waiting for the light to change at the corner. All of them are unmoving, some with their hands halfway into purses. Some of them were mid-conversation when whatever happened happened. Éponine can see a little girl in the middle of a tantrum, her red face screwed up mid-cry. It's that more than anything that unnerves Éponine. Children are meant to be alive, to be free, to be wild.</p>
<p>She turns away. The incessant ringing of her phone is getting on her nerves and she unlocks it with her fingerprint, trying to turn off the alarm manually. Her phone still reads 11:30 p.m., and Éponine knows something's wrong. She turns back to the cars in the street, to the beckoning green traffic light. She starts counting seconds automatically. </p>
<p>At one hundred twenty, her phone is still ringing. </p>
<p>-</p>
<p>The one thing Cosette knows is that she must look like her mother, Fantine. She has pictures of her birth father from her mother's personal things, diary entries detailing the splendor of her birth father's face and newspaper clippings to prove it. He was a handsome man, Félix Tholomyès, with cold blue eyes and an unsympathetic face. Cosette doesn't know the man in the pictures but she recognizes his eyes when she looks into a mirror. Her eyes too can go cold, like frozen seawater, murky green-blue when the tide is just right. </p>
<p>That's all she shared with Félix. She never inherited the straight nose, or the sculpted cheekbones. His hair is thick dark curls that hang over his forehead and give him a roguish handsomeness. Her birth father was the kind of person whose wealth was obvious in the way he dressed and the unmarked skin of his face. Even the way he posed for pictures, unbothered stance and the indifferent tilt to his head, the raise of his chin, suggested the ease with which he'd walked through the world. </p>
<p>He'd been charming too, talented with words, so that when he spoke, it was as though everything he'd said were true. Cosette's read all the diary entries from her mother's books. She knows well the curve of her birth father's cheek, the elegance of his fingers as he'd held a wine glass. She knows he'd danced with Fantine under the stars when they'd been nineteen years old. Cosette knows they'd been at the park outside of Félix's hotel room, that the night had been hot, that Fantine had never loved a man as much as she'd loved Félix Tholomyès at that moment. </p>
<p>Félix had been the focal point around which Fantine's life had centered and so, when she'd found out about Cosette, it had been the happiest day of her mother's life. </p>
<p>-</p>
<p>When Éponine had been twenty years old, Azelma and Gavroche had knocked over her alarm clock just as it'd gone off in the morning. It had taken the three of them ten minutes, through the constant, incessant ringing, to think of pulling out the cord from the wall. </p>
<p>This is why, this time, Éponine's ready. She knows her phone won't stop because it's stuck at 11:30 p.m., a forever alarm that pierces the night with its gratingly cheerful jingle. She hears the sound as though from the end of a long hallway, echoing, as she holds down the power button. </p>
<p>There's a sinister finality to the way the sound dies down to nothing as her screen goes black. </p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Cosette has no pictures of her mother because no one thought her important enough to photograph. </p>
<p>On mornings when it's taken her longer than usual to get out of bed, Cosette will pretend that the woman who looks out from the bathroom mirror is her mother. She can fill in the way her mother must've looked from what she sees on her own face. The off-center nose, almost too large, her wide mouth, and the way her hair could almost be limp, if she didn't work so hard to maintain it. Cosette is the echo of her mother's life and sometimes, she wonders whether it isn't possible that she's inherited her mother's misfortunes.</p>
<p>She's read the entries. There's pain in the pages of her mother's diary, half-concealed desperation in the way she'd penned her need to know what she'd done wrong, what had made the love of her life abandon her and her newborn daughter. Cosette can read between the lines. She knows she's the product of a fling that was confused for love. She's what's leftover of her father's callousness, of his lies, his deceits, the product of when love meets indifference. </p>
<p>It follows that this must leave a mark.</p>
<p>It must follow that Cosette is that mark.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Out in the night, under the orange bulb, there's a woman staring back at Cosette. She's shorter than Cosette, straight, dark brown hair that's tied away from her angry face. There's a roughness to her beauty like the jagged edges of rocks made sharp by lapping waves. Cosette knows her, knows the type of woman that's enthralling and interesting, shadowed by impossible defenses. A woman who's seen things in the world that have made her cold and distant, like the hard eyes of Cosette's father staring back at her through faded photographs.</p>
<p>The woman outside has deep brown eyes and flawless skin, not a mark on her person. She's instant beauty and Cosette doesn't always like herself, but she knows better than to throw herself on the same sword by which her mother died. </p>
<p>*</p>
<p>When she was eighteen, Cosette had looked into the sad eyes of a beautiful girl and she'd believed in love. </p>
<p>*</p>
<p>The thing is Cosette had never been beautiful growing up, but she'd been loved. </p>
<p>On days when it got too hard, there was always someone to help her up, someone to make the therapy appointments and drive her there, someone to bring her food to her bedroom, to braid her hair. She's wanted for nothing since Jean Valjean and his husband, Javert, had adopted her. She wants for nothing now, doesn't even live in doubt of her beauty anymore. Treatments and facials and money have made sure of that. </p>
<p>And still.</p>
<p>Still, she can't bring herself to be like her mother. She can't justify the wild beating of her heart and the impulsive urge to walk through the glass doors of The Standing Clock, out into the night where she can see the woman fumbling with her cellphone. She can't justify the absolute certainty that flows through her body as the woman looks up and their eyes meet again.</p>
<p>Cosette thinks of danger, thinks of a hot, humid day when she'd seen those same eyes looking at her in the lobby of an old apartment building. She thinks of her mother and Félix Tholomyès and she knows that this time, it's different.</p>
<p>It has to be different. </p>
<p>-</p>
<p><em>She's beautiful</em>, Éponine thinks as the doors to The Standing Clock swing open.</p>
<p>And Éponine would know those eyes anywhere, wide and bright blue. </p>
<p>She remembers a single moment of absolute peace the summer her mother had left. It'd been as though the world had stopped for a moment, long enough for Éponine to bump into the girl who'd been coming out of the building. They'd looked at each other and if she hadn't known any better, Éponine would have said time had stood still.</p>
<p>Her phone is heavy in her hand, now, and the absence of movement around her is almost enough to distract Éponine from the certainty in the woman's face. She walks forward, her heels clicking against the concrete. The swish of fabric as she walks is almost deafening. </p>
<p>"Hello," she says. "It seems we have a problem."</p>
<p>Éponine looks around her at the frozen cars and the changing streetlights. She turns away from the child at the corner. </p>
<p>This must mean something, surely. That for a second time the world stands still while a woman Éponine recognizes stands before her.</p>
<p>"This isn't the first time this has happened," Éponine says. </p>
<p>She feels her words like bands around her chest. In the silence, it's almost as though Éponine can see the way the sound floats above her. There's a dreamlike quality to her movements as she takes a step away from the woman in front of her. It's not fear, not really. It's more a justified caution because Éponine feels that she's starting to understand what's happening.</p>
<p>"What's your name?" the woman asks.</p>
<p>It doesn't feel like a moment to lie. "Éponine," she says. </p>
<p>"Éponine," the woman says, and it feels as though Éponine's name was made to come from her beautiful mouth. "I'm Cosette."</p>
<p>For a moment, it seems as though sound has come back to the world. Éponine hears a roar in her ears, but the wave of relief is short-lived. When she looks around, nothing's changed, except now, Cosette is smiling at her. </p>
<p>Éponine knows better than this. She knows better than to listen to the ache in her chest and the longing that burns through her. Desperate, wild, unfathomable things that will lead to no good. There's nothing to find in Cosette's open face and the intensity of her gaze. </p>
<p>"I have to go," Éponine says.</p>
<p>She backs away, tucking her phone into her bag. She has to get home, has to go see Azelma and Gavroche. </p>
<p>"I know what this is," Cosette calls.</p>
<p>Éponine stops. There's a certainty there that threatens to swallow her whole, a conviction that's alien. Éponine's never believed in something as much as Cosette believes in what she's saying.</p>
<p>"What's going on?" Éponine asks, turning back to Cosette.</p>
<p>She's lovely in the streetlight, more so because the shadows on her face emphasize her imperfections. She's attainable this way, beautiful, but not preternaturally so. </p>
<p>"We're soul mates," Cosette says. "Time stopped when we met."</p>
<p>There's a moment where Éponine thinks she's serious but Éponine's an old hand at the terror that runs through her at the words. How many times has she run from moments like these? How many women has she left half-dressed when they'd tried to curl up by her side? </p>
<p>She laughs. "Right," Éponine says. "Well, I'm leaving."</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>She should be scared, Cosette thinks as she sees the unmoving people. But she'd never been good at widening her focus when something's caught her attention. </p>
<p>Éponine said she's leaving but she hasn't moved and the longer Cosette looks at her, the more certain she is of what this all means. She knows what this is deep in her bones, though she can't say how it is that she knows. </p>
<p>"I'll come with you," Cosette says. </p>
<p>There's an easy smile on Éponine's face, something suggestive in the way she looks at Cosette. "Oh?" she asks, raising an eyebrow. "And why's that?"</p>
<p>Cosette looks at the cars in the street, at the orange lightbulb above The Standing Clock. She's never been less afraid in her life and she knows now, that a mother's failings are inherited traits. Because here she stands, in a world frozen in time, and she knows without a doubt in her mind that Éponine is her soul mate.  </p>
<p>-</p>
<p>"I don't want to be alone," Cosette says.</p>
<p>And Éponine can feel the words like the weight that they are, painfully true even when she tries to deny it. </p>
<p>She doesn't want to be alone. </p>
<p>"Okay," Éponine says. "Okay, you can come with me."</p>
<p>Cosette steps forward and the way she entwines her fingers with Éponine's feels like the final piece in a puzzle Éponine's been trying to solve all her life. </p>
<p>She exhales. </p>
<p>The wind howls and Éponine shivers.</p>
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